Out of the Cold by Norah McClintock Page A

figured that one out. “How long did you know Mr. Duffy, Ben?”
    â€œAlmost a year. I started volunteering at the shelter last January. It was my New Year’s resolution—do something good for someone else.”
    â€œWhat was he like when you first met him?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œMorgan and I talked to a lot of people today. From what everyone said, it seems that something changed in Mr. Duffy’s life about six months ago.” I went over everything that Morgan and I had found out. “Till then he was drinking. But he stopped. Until six months ago, he didn’t cause trouble at any of the shelters or soup kitchens he visited. Then he started taking things—food, mostly. All of a sudden he was buying children’s clothes.”
    â€œWhich he returned,” Ben said.
    I nodded. “Up until about six months ago, no one at any of the stores he went in ever complained about him. Then he started stealing. He stole spices from a grocery store.” I asked Ben the same question Morgan had asked me. “Why would a homeless man with no access to a kitchen steal spices?”
    â€œMaybe he gave them to Betty,” Ben said.
    â€œWe talked to Betty. She would have mentioned it.” It was so frustrating to have uncovered such tantalizing little bits and pieces but to be no closer to the truth. “I have no idea what it all adds up to,” I said.
    The waiter returned with our food. I couldn’t believe how hungry I was. I plunged into my grilled chicken salad.
    â€œDo you think maybe we should just leave it alone?” Ben said. “Drop the idea of a memorial service? You know, respect his privacy?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe.” What to do about the memorial service was Ben’s decision. I was thinking about what the woman said about the little girl and her mother. And about the spices Mr. Duffy had stolen. I wondered if the woman and the little girl knew that Mr. Duffy had died. “What happened to the books Duffy had with him?”
    â€œI have them right here,” Ben said. He picked his backpack up off the floor. I stared at it.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I said.
    â€œWhat’s what?”
    â€œThat.” I pointed to the crest on his backpack. I hadn’t noticed it before. “Does that say Ashdale Academy?”
    Ben’s cheeks turned pink.
    â€œHow come you have a backpack with an Ashdale crest on it? Do you go there?”
    Ashdale Academy was a private boys’ school uptown. I’d heard called the most expensive, most exclusive boys’ school in the city. Ben looked at the few remaining French fries on his plate. He straightened up slowly and nodded.
    â€œUh-huh,” I said, digesting this new fact. “So where exactly did you get off giving me a hard time because of how
I
dress and the car
my
dad drives?”
    â€œWould it help if I apologized?”
    â€œIt would help if you explained.”
    He drew in a deep breath “The first time I saw you, I thought I knew you,” he said. “I mean, I thought I knew your type. Like the girls who live in my neighborhood. The girls who go to St. Mildred’s.” St. Mildred’s was the most exclusive private
girls’
school in the city. “Most of them have no idea what real life is like. Their idea of struggle is waiting a week until the Prada bag they ordered comes in.”
    â€œYou think I’m like
that
?”
    â€œThought,” he said. “Past tense. I was wrong. I’m sorry.” He looked at me, and for a moment I looked back. Then I thought about Nick.
    â€œRight,” I said. “Let’s see those books.” I held out my hand.
    â€œI don’t think they’re going to tell us anything.” Ben fished the beat-up novels out of his Ashdale backpack.
    Ours hands touched as Ben passed the books to me, and our eyes met again. I looked away quickly and told myself that I